Murder on the Moor

by Julianna Deering

  Drew thought again of how Delwyn’s indifferent expression had turned somber and thoughtful while they were talking. Who had he been thinking of? Was someone he cared about hurting himself—hurting herself—with the choices he or she had made?

  Once more, Drew thought about Sabrina. Delwyn had admitted to having “attachments” here. If he were involved with Sabrina, she was definitely already attached, and it seemed she had no intention of unattaching herself for his sake. But had the idea of her hurting herself and others with her infidelity truly pricked him with regret? Surely, if the gamekeeper was as much of a Don Juan as rumor laid out, he had long ago cauterized the portion of his conscience concerned with the seventh commandment.

  Well, as Madeline liked to remind him, he hadn’t the slightest proof that Sabrina was seeing anyone, much less who that man might be. He wanted to be fair. He needed to be fair. If he wasn’t, Fleur had bested him after all. If he made assumptions about other women because of his memories of Fleur, then it would mean she still had hold of him. It would mean she had won.

  He never thought of her with fondness or even, despite her intoxicating beauty, as some forbidden fantasy. She was merely someone who had deceived him, someone who had taken advantage of his naïveté and forever sullied his eighteen-year-old idealism. She was a painful lesson to be sure, but he had learnt it, and then along came Madeline to prove his ideals were not so impossible after all. Fleur was in the distant past and shouldn’t be any kind of recurrent memory for him now, unpleasant or otherwise. Then why did she insist on coming back to him? Why was he allowing the thought of her to color his assessment of Sabrina Bloodworth? Were Fleur’s red-lacquered nails still buried so deeply into him that he hadn’t even realized it?

  No, he wouldn’t let her best him. He would be fair. To Sabrina and to Delwyn and even to Midgley, he would be fair.

  “God,” he breathed, looking up at the grayish night sky, “help me see the truth without presuming anything. Help me remember that you are the only one who truly knows what’s in someone else’s heart. Help me to let go of . . .”

  He was going to say let go of the memory of Fleur’s deceit, but he saw with sudden clarity that the problem was something else entirely. It wasn’t her deceit but his own pride he needed to let go of. He had been taken in by a pretty face and a charming manner. At eighteen, he had thought himself clever and discerning. To be honest, most of the time he thought it still. But when he looked at the facts, when he looked clearly at himself, he knew that wasn’t always so. And when Fleur had deceived him so easily, bringing into sharp relief that failure, that deficiency, it had hurt his pride. Not his heart, his pride.

  If he were ever to see the truth, he had to let it go. That presumption. That pride. He had to see things as they really were. Everyone involved in the case here deserved as much. The dead most of all.

  When he finally pulled up to the Lodge, he had no answers, though he had more questions than he had started out with when he went into the Hound and Hart. But he was going to find the answers, and he didn’t have to do it alone. And, God helping him, he would be fair.

  It was good to know Madeline was waiting for him inside the house.

  After lunch the next day, Drew and Madeline sat down with Beaky to go over Miss Patterson’s letter once again, urging him to think of anything, no matter how trivial, she might have wanted to tell him. Poor Beaky could think of nothing.

  Drew watched him until he went into his study and shut the door. Then he moved closer to Madeline, keeping his voice low. “What could it be but something about Sabrina? Miss Patterson had never even met Beaky, but she knew Sabrina very well.”

  Madeline looked at him reproachfully. “And you were going to be fair.”

  “I am being fair. What else can it be? Granted, perhaps it wasn’t something to do with another man, I don’t want to rule anything out as of yet, but how can it not be about Sabrina in some way? What other connection would there be between Beaky and Miss Patterson? He never even met her. His estate agent arranged for her to come live in Bunting’s Nest.”

  Madeline crossed her arms over her chest. “And what does that have to do with the murder of the vicar?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe he saw Sabrina where she shouldn’t have been.”

  She merely looked at him, mild disgust in her expression, and he pressed a contrite kiss to her cheek.

  “Don’t be cross with me, darling. At least not yet.”

  “You’re about to give me a reason to be cross with you, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he protested, and then he looked even more contrite. “Well, yes. A bit.”

  Her mouth tightened, and he knew she was trying not to smile.

  “I told you about what happened in the pub last night,” he said. “I need to go see what I can get out of Midgley. Maybe when he’s not drunk and trying to impress his friends he’ll be more cooperative.”

  “And you don’t want me to go with you.”

  “Not there, darling. I don’t know what sort of place this cottage might be, and as you know, he’s not at all a nice fellow.”

  She frowned, but she wasn’t arguing with him. “You shouldn’t go alone, though. Can’t you take Nick with you?”

  “You know I can’t. He’s supposed to be Midgley’s friend, not mine.”

  Her frown deepened. “I guess that would spoil everything. What about Delwyn? I suppose he might not be feeling too well after last night.”

  “I’m not quite sure what to make of him yet, but if I’m going to get Midgley to tell me anything at all, having Delwyn along is probably not the way to go about it.”

  She put one soft hand up to his cheek, and he leaned into it, breathing in the light scent of lavender.

  “Be careful, Drew. I don’t like you going out there alone.”

  Heaven help him, how could he resist those eyes?

  He kissed the underside of her wrist. “You needn’t worry, darling. Even Midgley’s not fool enough to do me any harm when I’ve told everyone I’m going to see him.”

  She pursed her lips. “Everyone?”

  “Well, you. But if I turn up on the moor with sheep shears in my back, you be sure and tell Trenton who did it.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say, and not at all funny.” She flounced away from him. “You know someone like Midgley is more likely to use the knife he carries to scale fish.”

  Laughing, he pulled her back into his arms. “I’ll be back for tea, so try to behave yourself while I’m gone. And remember, you and Sabrina both promised you wouldn’t go walking on the moor alone anymore.”

  “Yes, yes, we promised. We’ll be here when you get back.” She hugged him hard. “I’ll see what else I can find out from Sabrina while you’re gone.” For a moment she was silent, and then she turned her eyes up to his again. “I still think we should have a look at the north wing. After what Sabrina’s heard—”

  “Oh, don’t let’s go on about that again, darling. Really. Beaky’s had his chaps look it over more than once already. There’s nothing to see. And the bally floor’s likely to come away under us if we go in there anyway.”

  There was a touch of pique in her expression now. “You’re supposed to be the smart amateur sleuth, you know. Not Beaky’s hired men. They’re not likely to know what’s important and what’s not. What would it hurt—”

  “It wouldn’t hurt anything. I just have actual leads to follow rather than wasting my time on a dead end. Right?”

  She merely pursed her lips.

  “Right?” he urged, squeezing her close.

  She sniffed.

  “I promise we’ll give it a look as soon as I have some free time, all right?”

  “All right,” she said finally.

  He gave her a sound kiss and, before she could say anything more, he was gone.

  Drew followed the map Delwyn had drawn on the back of the envelope and was soon at the poacher’s cottage. If Midgley was home, perhaps he’d have something worth
while to say. At the very least, he ought to be sober this early in the day and wouldn’t be trying to impress his mates from the pub. If he wasn’t home, all the better. There was no telling what a quick look around the place might turn up.

  The cottage was more of a shed than a proper house, hardly big enough for one person. But it seemed sturdy enough under its thatched roof, and a steady stream of smoke drifted out of the stone chimney. He studied the door before he made his presence known. A place like this wasn’t likely to have anything more than a latch to keep the door shut, much less an actual lock. It shouldn’t be difficult if he decided to let himself in.

  He lifted his hand to knock, then stopped. Someone inside was humming, but it wasn’t the craggy-voiced Jack Midgley. It was a woman’s voice. He wasn’t familiar with the tune she hummed, though he thought it must be one of the folk songs native to this place. It sounded as old and lonely as the wind on the moor.

  So Midgley kept a woman, did he? A wife or someone a trifle less official? Either way, maybe that would clarify Delwyn’s comment of the night before, but it would certainly put a damper on Drew’s ability to search the place. Perhaps an interview and a chance to have a subtle look about would be just as helpful. Nothing for it but to try.

  He rapped sharply on the door.

  The humming broke off, and there was a scrabbling sound from inside. “Who is it, please? I do have a shotgun, in case you’d like to know.”

  “I very much like to know that sort of thing when I come visiting,” Drew called back. “I find it so much more congenial when all parties are forthcoming about how heavily they are armed. Now I, for one, haven’t anything but my wits about me, and I’m told those are too dull to cause any damage.”

  “I don’t recognize your voice,” the woman said, now sounding more annoyed than frightened. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Drew Farthering. I’m staying up at the Lodge. May I come in?”

  For a moment there was silence.

  “What do you want?” Her voice came from just on the other side of the door now, accompanied by the dull thud of what could only be a gun barrel against the doorframe.

  “I was looking for Jack Midgley. I understand this is his cottage.”

  “If he owes you money, you may as well go on back to Harrogate or wherever it is you come from. I haven’t got any, and if he has, he’s not likely to turn loose of it without a fight.”

  Drew bit his lip to keep from laughing. The woman sounded rather young, but it seemed she had come face-to-face with Midgley’s creditors a time or two before now.

  “I assure you, ma’am, I came here for the sole purpose of getting some information. Are you Mrs. Midgley?”

  The woman snorted. “I’m his daughter. And there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  Daughter. Well, that wasn’t what Drew was expecting. At least there was no romantic entanglement to be dealt with.

  “Perhaps there’s something I can tell you,” he replied. “It costs you nothing to just listen for a moment, eh?”

  She made no reply.

  “Look here.” He made his voice as persuasive and unthreatening as he could manage. “You’re the one with the gun. Just let me come in for a moment. I’d like to know what your father’s involved with. Whatever it is, if you can convince him to talk to the police about it, it might save him and you a lot of trouble. What do you say?”

  Again there was only silence.

  “Have a heart, Miss Midgley,” he said at last. “It’s deuced cold out here, and I’m sure my wife will be waiting tea for me before long.”

  After another moment, there was the clank of the latch and the door creaked open. The gun barrel nosed out first, followed by a girl of perhaps twenty, dark-haired and slight, wearing a dress that had gone out of fashion at least five years before. She jerked her head toward the hearth, not meeting his eyes.

  “Go on and sit down. Say what you want to say and then go back to the Lodge where you belong.”

  The little house was cluttered, needed paint, and smelled of smoke and boiled potatoes, yet it was scrupulously clean. Drew pushed a low, three-legged stool closer to the fire and had a seat. The girl made her way back to her own stool beside the spinning wheel that filled most of the center of the small room and took up her wool once more, keeping the gun propped next to her.

  “Mr. Farthering, is it? I suppose you’re the gentleman from London we’ve heard of. Come about Mr. Miles.”

  However did she know, penned up out here alone?

  “Hampshire, actually, but yes. I did come to see what I could find out.”

  He watched her for a moment, fascinated by the swift, skilled movement of her slender fingers. She didn’t even look at the spindle as the fine yarn flew from it.

  “You don’t happen to sell your yarn in the village, do you?”

  She ducked her head. “It helps make ends meet.”

  “I must tell my wife I’ve met you.” He smiled, hoping she’d look up. “She bought some of it and said it’s the best she’s found anywhere. I have a feeling she’d like to take several skeins of it home with us.”

  “That’s very kind of her. Tell her I’ll send some more into the village as soon as I can.” She did not look up. “Now if you would, please say what it is you came to say. I’ll have to get tea on before long myself, and I don’t think you’ll want to be here when my father gets back.”

  “All right,” he said, standing to look into the little baskets on the table behind her, each one filled with a different color of yarn. “Though I know my wife would like some of this blue yarn. It’s just the color of her eyes.” He picked up a skein of bright red and held it for a moment. “Perhaps I could buy some of it from you now.”

  She glanced up and then shook her head, her attention again on her work. “The blue is promised already. If you like, I can have some sent on to you when I have more.”

  “Pity,” he said. “But that will have to do. I’ll just give it back to you then.”

  He put it into her outstretched hand, and she turned and dropped it into the basket with the other blue skeins. So that was it.

  He caught her hand as she turned again to her spinning wheel, making her jump. “Forgive my bluntness, Miss Midgley, but you’re blind, aren’t you?”

  She snatched her hand out of his, giving him his first real glimpse of her flashing pale-green eyes. “I don’t see what that has to do with what you came to say about my father.”

  “I beg your pardon. I meant no offense. But it would seem to me that your situation makes it even more urgent for your father to stop what he’s been doing and find honest work. If something were to happen to him, what would you do?”

  She lifted her chin, a chin as stubbornly cleft as her father’s was. “I’d do what I always do, Mr. Farthering. Look after myself.”

  “Out here alone?”

  “I’ve done it since my mother died. Da was never much help even before then, but we got along. Mrs. Preston at the shop in the village is good enough to carry my yarns, and there’s a place in Harrogate as well. What I make off that gets us through.”

  “And without what your father brings in?”

  Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “What he brings in never gets any closer to here than the Hound and Hart.”

  “I’ve heard he’s been rather generous with the drinks these days,” Drew said, watching her expression. “Is that usual for him?”

  She huffed. “He’s more likely to beg a drink than buy one from what I’ve always heard. He must have made good on one of his great schemes if he’s buying now, but don’t bother asking me what that might have been. He never tells me what he has going on, though I do hear things from time to time.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m blind, Mr. Farthering, not deaf. I do have friends, and I do get about a bit. I know my father isn’t spoken well of in Bunting’s Nest. I expect you’ve already been told he’s a poacher, that he’ll do any kind of job so long as he’s paid we
ll enough. And so long as he doesn’t have to keep regular hours.”

  “Is that all true?”

  She sighed and began spinning again, her white brow furrowed. “I don’t know if anyone’s as good or bad as gossip paints him.”

  Drew didn’t say anything for a moment, just listened to the whir of the wheel and watched the swift, deft movements of her fingers.

  “He doesn’t buy what you need? Clothes and that sort of thing?”

  “No. It’s all I can expect for him to carry my yarn into the village for me. He tells me he has other things need seeing to. He doesn’t come home much but to sleep. If that.”

  “Does he ever talk to you about what he does? Who he sees?” Drew hesitated, watching her fine-featured face. “Who pays him?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know that I’d mind so much if they put a stop to whatever it is he does. I don’t guess it could be right, not from what I’ve overheard. Mum would be that ashamed, though even when she was alive he never cared what anybody said.”

  “You’ve overheard?” Drew said, and there was a sudden quickening in his blood. “What have you overheard?”

  She lifted one slender shoulder just slightly. “I couldn’t hear much. Not any of the times. He was out back of the cottage, and the other man was talking very low. A while back I heard him say something about the sheep, and then afterward I heard two lambs were left dead on the moor, made to look as if something had got them, maybe the barghest, talk was. But you can’t tell me it wasn’t Da.”

  Drew leaned forward in his chair. “Who was the other man? Did you recognize the voice?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How did he sound to you? Young or old?”